Imposter Syndrome - Alan McClure

 

One of the great joys of having a book or two out is the chance to meet scores of writers online, from first-timers desperate for publication to wise old hands whose work could fill shelves. It gives the lie to the notion that writing needs to be a solitary pastime, and shows you that any struggle you may be having is one that others have weathered before. A recurring theme I’ve noticed in writerly chats is the number of writers concerned about ‘imposter syndrome’ – that is, the notion that they haven’t really got the right to write, or that their literary licks aren’t up to scratch. They may feel they have no business being in the company of other writers. Anyone who mentions this is instantly met with waves of support – “Everyone feels that way!” they are assured, “That’s perfectly normal!”

 

Well, I have a wee confession to make: the only sense in which I feel like an imposter is in the fact that I don’t in any way feel like an imposter. Whatever mixter-maxter of circumstance and fortune brought me to my current life, writing hasn’t been a choice, it’s been a compulsion and an obligation. It manifests as songs, poems, stories, novels, letters (remember them?)… I know no other way but to organise my thoughts in written language. And what’s more, I suspect the same is true of most writers. So what’s with this ‘imposter’ business?

 

I must hasten to state that I don’t think I’m any better than the folk who struggle with this, but I might have found a useful get-out clause which could be helpful: I also don’t think anyone is better than me. Now, obviously, there are plenty of measures of success by which I’m way, way down at the bottom of the ladder – but those lucky souls up there in the vertiginous heights of fame and mastery can’t write my stuff. No-one can but me. And no-one can write your stuff but you.

 

That’s not to say that you or I are fully formed geniuses with no journey to take and nothing to do but wait for the world to recognise how amazing we are. If I thought I was already as good as I could possibly be, well, I might as well just stop. But I don’t think the great swathes of lovely, exciting improvement that lie before me will be terribly accessible if I keep telling myself I have no right to explore them. Our writing is our territory to stake out, and while it would be naïve to think that the world at large should take notice or care about the results, it’s also misguided to think we require its permission to proceed.

 

At some point the fruits of our adventures in writerland  will probably come up against the scrutiny of readers, be they agents, publishers, fellow writers or book fans, and that’s a thing to deal with when it comes. Some will like it, some will not: but either reaction will be the result of their particular headspace when they encounter it, their preferences and predispositions, and not the result of omniscient objective wisdom about what should and shouldn’t be written. Even if everyone who responds to your work does so negatively, it still doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have written it. It may mean there are aspects of the craft to develop, but that should be a joyful prospect and one to pursue with a will.

 

At the heart of it, I think you know if you’re a writer. You can’t help it. You’ll be other things too, and it could be that your writing remains a private pleasure. You may be a teacher (and a writer), a salesperson (and a writer), a showjumper (and a writer), a mechanic (and a writer). But written language is the common property of all, and as soon as you put pen to paper or finger to keyboard there is one thing that you cannot be, brothers and sisters, and that is an imposter.